on the stone seat words floated into his consciousness.
"The storms can endure but for a night. Peace comes with the morning. Oh, soul! tarry thou the Lord's leisure! Be strong and He shall comfort thine heart!"
Surely a voice spoke.
Above towered the unshaken, sun flushed mightiness, shining with countless, threadlike rills trickling down every crevice or slipping over broad slants in transparent, glinting sheets. There was the message again—one of unassailable peace; of unconquered endurance. The storm was over. What matter if it came again? It would pass again. Some things are to be fought, but some must be endured. So one cannot fight storms; one lives through them. Shall one rage in bitterness against the tempests of life? With that bitterness and resentment which crumbles all our power to dust? Do not the hard things we bear go as completely to the fashioning of man as the hard things we do? If the muscles of the soul
